What'll I do
by SnapeSeraphin
Summary: What’s a man to do when the woman he loves is no longer in his life? Step inside and discover a new side to Lucius Malfoy through the eyes of a bartender… LM?


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter.

**AN**: just an idea that popped into my head while I was listening to Nat King Cole singing What'll I do. This is NOT a songfic. If you want the lyrics, Google them ;-)

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

What'll I do 

I have seen him coming in here off and on for the last couple of months. As I am polishing some glasses, I subtly look at the man sitting at the opposite end of the bar. In spite of his rather thoroughly inebriated state, he looks up after only moments, as if he senses my eyes on him. He gives me a glare, before returning his attention to his double single malt scotch, tosses whatever was left of it back in one gulp and waves the glass at me. I push off from where I'm leaning against the bar and set down the glass and towel. As I walk the couple of meters separating him from me, I grab the bottle containing my finest whiskey without breaking stride and place it in front of him silently.

He looks up at me blearily with a look that is an odd mix of gratitude and contempt that I have seen many times before. Yet somehow, this man manages to add a certain sense of disdain to it that is actually quite impressive; if he weren't pitiably drunk it would probably have prompted me to apologize. As it is, I give the bottle a little nudge in his direction saying: "You look like you need it, lad."

He pulls up an eyebrow elegantly with an ease that speaks of long practice. His eyes shoot sparks at me, even as his hand closes around the bottle and he pours generously.

I wait for the right moment. When he raises the glass to his mouth I say offhandedly: "I haven't seen your lady-friend around lately. Have a little spat?"

His hand pauses for a moment as he gives me that contemptuous glare again over the rim of his glass, before he takes a large sip.

"I do not wisssh to sspeak about it," he enunciates with some trouble. In spite of the slurring, his speech sounds more cultured and elegant than what I've come to expect from the average customer.

"We've all had our experiences, lad," I say soothingly. His eyes look searchingly into mine, despite his troubles focusing and I wonder if he's actually going to answer. I figured him to be a bit more of a challenge really.

My suspicions are confirmed as he sneers at me, empties his glass and fumbles for his purse. He throws a handful of coins on the bar without bothering to count them; from the looks of it it's enough to settle his tab twice over even with his expensive taste in liquor.

He stumbles slightly as he slides off his stool, but I wouldn't dare to attempt to lend a helping hand. I've no particular desire to be on the receiving end of that glare of his again any time soon. An expensive emerald robe is thrown rather haphazardly over his shoulders and he doesn't even bother to fasten the clasp. After giving me a last, baleful look, he walks to the door with measured steps. If I hadn't served him every single drink he's consumed, I'd have said he couldn't have had more than two.

"Don't splinch yourself, lad!" I call after him good-naturedly, only to grin when the door falls closed behind him with a bang. Thought that wouldn't go over well.

* * *

It's about two weeks before I see him again. To be honest, his appearance shocks me a little, and coming from an experienced bartender, that is saying something, believe you me. 

I had of course noticed that he was fretting over something: men like him don't drink like he has been doing without there being a serious problem. But despite all that, there has always been a quiet sort of dignity to him; even when he's roaring drunk he always retains his manners and that cultivated, articulate way of speaking. He has been coming here drowning his sorrows in whiskey for over two months and I don't think I ever saw him do so much as loose his footing; I can't even image him puking his guts out, no matter how much he has drunk.

So when he steps into the pub with his long hair looking as if he hasn't even taken the trouble of brushing it and his cheeks more hollow than the last time I saw him, I am genuinely surprised.

I've seen this happen many times before to men young and old, of all imaginable situations in life: it always ends in one of two ways. The first is that whatever the trouble was is solved, apologised for or otherwise eliminated. The other is that it isn't and they get over it. From the looks of it, neither has happened. I can't help but feel sorry for the poor sod.

Apparently some of my thoughts are visible on my face, for as he seats himself in his usual spot at the end of the bar and I bring him a generous glass of my finest whiskey, he narrows his eyes at me and warns me coldly: "Don't even think about it."

I wipe the gleaming wood between us needlessly and pull up an eyebrow as he is so fond of doing himself.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I respond with my own mark of cynicism, before turning and moving back to the other side of the bar, where I pick up my conversation with one of the regulars.

He seems more restless than usual to me, as he sits staring into his glass without drinking much at all. Instead, he turns it around and around between his fingers until old McBurney jerks his chin in his general direction and mumbles to me: "What's up with 'im tonight?"

I shrug. "Same as last time, I guess," I reply in a low voice and we both take another sip of our drinks, sinking into a contemplative silence.

I'm jerked from my thoughts by the sound of coins being thrown on wood and as I look up I see him striding to the door. As I glance over my shoulder to the other end of the bar I see the usual amount of money lying in a pile next to a glass of whiskey that he can't have taken more than two sips of.

I shake my head at McBurney. Poor sod.

* * *

The next time he comes in, he at least looks as neatly groomed as I've gotten used to from him. His cheeks are just as hollow though. I move in front of his seat and dry my hands on my towel, while he drapes his cloak over the seat next to his. 

As he looks up and our eyes lock, I notice his are slightly red. He pulls up that eyebrow again.

I reach beneath the counter, from where I produce a bottle of 'his' whiskey. I might as well keep it there, since he is the only one that drinks it anyway. The eyebrow moves higher still, but he doesn't comment when I pour him his drink.

I lean languidly against the bar and watch him as he lifts the glass to his mouth.

"Better put her out of your head, lad."

His eyes snap to mine and despite their being a cold grey, the fire beneath his gaze is unmistakable.

"I come here for your excellent whiskey, not your second-rate advice on my love-life," he coolly informs me.

"Suit yourself, lad," I reply equitably and start to turn away from him.

"And kindly stop calling me 'lad'," he adds in annoyance. "I rather think I'm too old for it." Once again I notice how perfectly polite his manner of speech is, even though his tone is quite cold.

I turn back to look him in the eye. What I see is a handsome, well dressed man who is looking rather tired at the moment. The lines running from his nose to his mouth and the finer ones around his eyes suggest that he actually is a bit old to be called lad. But after standing behind this bar for the last hundred years, I'm a bit set in my ways too.

"I'm about thrice your age, lad" I reply, the 'lad' slipping out quite unintentionally this time, "I rather think I'm old enough to have earned the right."

There goes that eyebrow again. But he doesn't comment as I walk back to where I was filling out the list for my supplier.

He's the last one to leave tonight, after having consumed almost an entire bottle of whiskey all by himself. When it's time to pay, he just holds his purse upside-down over the bar. He doesn't even try to stop the coins from rolling over the edge and scatter in all directions on the floor; the empty purse is haphazardly stuffed back into the pocket of his robes.

For the first time since I have known him, his legs are quite unsteady as he gets up, but after a moment to collect himself, he walks to the door with the same measured steps I am used to.

Poor, poor sod.

* * *

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ 

I am talking to Gertie some days later as he enters. The moment he steps through the door, her eyes move in his direction and she follows his progress through the bar to his usual spot.

"Excuse me, Gertie," I say and move to his side of the bar to pour him his whisky. He goes so far as to raise the glass to me in a sort of salute, then proceeds to drain it in one go. I fill it up again and he cradles it in his hand, his shoulders dropping minutely as he does so. I leave the bottle on the bar.

Gertie is eyeing him speculatively as I return to her. Now you must know that Gertie is not bad looking and being single as she is, she has no problem getting attention from men. She's a bit of a chatterbox and excellent company for a night in the pub. She's a good sort of girl, but somehow I know that he would not appreciate anyone trying to join him. You only need to see him staring morosely into his drink to know that he is pining for another woman.

"What's the matter with him?" says Gertie, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.

I shrug my shoulders. I'm a bartender: I listen to people's secrets, I don't go spreading them around. Besides, he hasn't told me anything.

"Girl troubles?" asks Gertie.

"What else can make a man so miserable?" I laugh.

"Can't imagine him having trouble finding a new woman," she comments, while she studies him rather impertinently, "he's a right handsome fellow." I wonder why he hasn't given her one of his notorious glares yet; he usually always notices immediately when people are staring.

"I think I am gonna go and try cheer him up," Gertie announces and hops off her barstool.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Gertie," I try to caution her, but she's already halfway over to him and waves her hand dismissively in the air, not even turning around to acknowledge me. I sigh. Why do people never listen to a piece of good advice?

In spite of my own opinion on the matter, I can't help but watch as she slides her voluptuous curves into the seat next to his. She's a bit of a seductress, our Gertie.

I think I can make out the words 'Now what is a good-looking man such as yourself doing alone in a bar on a night like this?' or something to that effect. After a very deliberate pause, he looks up from his drink and replies coolly: "Madam, I can only guess as to what your expectations where when you decided to come and sit next to me, but let me assure you that I am currently unable to be suitably agreeable company a lady such as yourself deserves.

Now I clearly heard the 'leave me alone' part in that, but Gertie, unused to being spoken to in such a polite manner, quite mistook the man.

"Oh don't worry about it, dear. I bet you are very capable of keeping a woman happy."

I swear I can see a flash of hurt on his face but it is gone in the blink of an eye.

"I assure you madam, that you had much better gift someone more deserving with your company," he insists stiffly.

Gertie laughs heartily at that and slaps his arm lightly. "Oh you're so silly!" she exclaims as she looks at him from beneath her lashes. This kind of attention from her would have had every single man in the village eating from her hand for the rest of the evening, but as I already told you, he is quite different from the normal folk that frequents my pub. As he had quite clearly told me himself some days before, he came for the excellent whiskey only.

I am somewhat apprehensive about how he is going to react to Gertie's absolute refusal to be rebuffed. To my astonishment, he simply returns his attention to his drink and makes no reply at all. For Gertie, it is all the encouragement she needs. I know she's going to talk to him for as long as he keeps his seat.

Perhaps the attention of another human being is doing him some good; when he goes home it's almost as late as his usual time to depart, but he hasn't drunk nearly as much whiskey.

* * *

I wish Gertie were here today; he looks particularly unwell. Maybe her inconsequential chattering could have taken his mind off of whatever keeps plaguing him. I wonder for the umpteenth time what has happened between him and his lady-friend; they always seemed so happy together. 

As I again discreetly steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye, his gaze raises to meet mine.

"Kindly stop staring," he mutters without his usual aloofness.

I openly turn towards him now, but I don't move nearer.

"How do you do that?"

"How do I do what exactly?" he asks. I must remember not to drop the glass I'm holding out of sheer surprise that he appears to be talking to me.

With studied nonchalance, I place the glass between its mates on the shelves behind the bar. "Know whenever somebody is watching you, no matter how discreetly it is done."

He shrugs with natural grace.

"I've lived in a couple of places where being aware could mean the difference between being killed or live to see another day," he replies a little too offhandedly.

I know he's not telling me the whole truth, but I also realise he's telling me as much as he comfortably can. Not wanting to break the fragile progress I have made by waiting for his move, I nod. "Handy, that."

He doesn't reply and takes a sip of his whisky.

"Have you even seen your lady-friend, since you argued?" I ask finally, studiously avoiding looking at him.

He sighs, but doesn't speak. I am waiting for the sound of coins being thrown on the counter, but he surprises me again.

"It's no use."

At the sound of his voice, I look up. He's turning the glass around between his hands again, staring at the patterns the light makes on the moving liquid.

"She wouldn't so much as look at me if I'd tried to talk to her now…and she'd be perfectly right not to," he says wearily.

"It can't be that bad…what could you have done that you don't deserve another chance, lad?" I slowly approach him and assume a comfortable position, leaning against the counter.

"It's better this way," he says in a tone of voice as if he is still trying to convince himself of that. "For her, it's better this way." The words are firmly addressed to his whiskey.

While I fumble for something to say, he looks up at me and though his face reveals nothing, his eyes betray some feelings. They are too fleeting for me to identify; I can make an educated guess though.

He smiles sadly. "I just wish I knew what to do with myself," he adds.

In the silence that follows, he picks up his glass and drains it.

I find myself staring at his empty seat and the pile of coins only moments later.

* * *

He's been coming here so frequently, that the regulars have quite accepted him as one of their own. He still keeps mostly to himself and talks very little. Gertie keeps him company whenever she's here and he has given up trying to discourage her. He has even gone so far as to talk to me on occasion and for a while he seemed to be doing a little better. Tonight he seems just as morose as he was all those months ago, though. 

He's just staring into his whisky again, not drinking. With him that's a bad sign. He doesn't even seem to be aware of Gertie nattering on next to him. Finally she places a hand on his shoulder and says something to him too soft for me to hear. She looks concerned though. At her touch, he looks at her. "I'm sorry. I appear to be particularly horrible company tonight," he apologizes, with a brief, sad little smile.

"Honey, you're always horrible company," says Gertie and at least that remark manages to inspire a genuine smile, however swiftly it disappears. He reaches for his purse.

"Oh come now, don't let that remark drive you home, sweetie. I'm used to your being horrible, you know," she tries to cajole him.

At the word 'sweetie' a pained expression briefly flits over his face. That at least, I can understand; she called him that too on occasion.

"I'd really better go home," he says as he prepares to stand.

He freezes halfway up and his eyes narrow dangerously as he locks gazes with someone I didn't even notice had entered until now.

Standing near the door are two young men, one lean with black hair and glasses, the other tall and gangly with fiery red hair.

"Malfoy," the redhead practically spits at the man I've been puzzling over for the last couple of months. Excited whispers go round the pub as everyone seems to realise simultaneously who the black-haired wizard is.

"Having a good time, Malfoy?" the man recently identified as Harry Potter asks snidely.

The man he's addressing slowly draws himself up to his full height and calmly looks back at the two younger men. His face reveals absolutely nothing.

I already guessed that this one had balls, that he would not be pressed into anything against his will, but I never would have thought he could be this formidable. Yet there he is, staring down Harry Potter without even speaking.

Potter isn't to be subdued so easily though; he has faced down the evilest wizard of our time after all and came out on top.

"We want to have a word with you, Malfoy," he announces, the face that I only know as smiling shyly up at me from the front page of the Daily Prophet hard and determined.

'Malfoy' raises one curved eyebrow elegantly. Somehow the gesture manages to convey even more disdain than it usually does. "The more pity it is, _Potter_," he answers coldly with the same contemptuous emphasis on the other's last name as was just used on his own by the redhead, "that there is no subject I can possibly conceive that I would want to discuss with you." His cold gaze moves to the redhead, who still looks as if Malfoy is something he is highly allergic to. "Or your friends."

"You bastard!" the tall gangly man, who cannot be anyone but Ronald Weasley bursts out. "We will find out what the hell you did to Hermione!"

Hermione? His lady-friend is Hermione Granger? No wonder they ran into some relationship problems. Seeing his identity and who her best friends are….

Again, my saturnine customer doesn't deign to reply, just looks down his nose at the other two. How he manages to pull that off while the red-haired one is at least a couple of inches taller than he is himself, I'll never know.

Needless to say it doesn't particularly endear him to the two-thirds of the famous Golden Trio that are currently standing in my humble pub.

"I have no compelling desire to stay and listen to your babbling," he states sarcastically, "however I'm sure Granger will be delighted to know you two are protecting her interests." The two young men exchange a somewhat uneasy look at that last part, which does not go unnoticed by Malfoy. The corner of his mouth turns up in the barest hint of a smirk.

"What?" he demands in mock surprise, eyebrows shooting up in apparent wonder. "Don't tell me you didn't inform her of your intentions to help her get her life back on the rails; she'll be sure to thank you afterwards, won't she?" His voice holds a tone of superiority and that posh, rich aristocratic accent of his that softens when he feels at ease is back full force.

From the fact that the other two are not yet capable of forming a coherent reply, I gather that he's put his finger exactly on the sore spot. Judging from the growing smirk, he knows it as well.

"My, my, my," he says and for the first time since I've known him there's something malicious glinting in those cold grey eyes. "Messing in Granger's affairs without her knowing…what _would_ she say?"

"She would say that she appreciates their concern, but would thank them to let her run her own life," a voice announces from behind Malfoy. A woman I immediately recognize as the one that used to make his eyes glow as if somehow starlight was trapped in them steps from the shadows. She is a bit paler and a bit thinner than I remember, but there's no mistaking that hair.

Even though her paleness has taken some of the glow from her, Malfoy cannot help but follow her with his eyes as she steps forward. I think I am the only one who notices the fleeting expression of shock in his eyes: the two younger wizards appear to be every bit as startled by her sudden appearance as he is. By the time she is level with him the emotionless mask is firmly back in place.

He needn't have bothered yet though: for the time being her attention is still focused on her two best friends.

"I thought I asked you to keep out of this?" she asks and even though she speaks softly, there is no mistaking the disappointment and slight annoyance in her tone.

"We know, Hermione, but we had to do something…." starts Ron in a soothing tone, but trails off as she shoots him a sharp look.

"I asked you specifically NOT to interfere in my affairs," she says quietly, fixing her gaze alternately on the tall red-head and the lean black-haired wizard. They both shuffle their feet like a couple of teenagers being told off by their teacher.

"But Hermione," Harry Potter tries this time, "we only wanted to help you. You wouldn't tell us what had happened so we figured…"

"So you figured it would be a good idea to go and harass Malfoy to find out?" she interrupts him and this time her voice has a sharp edge to it.

"I am standing right here and there is nothing wrong with my hearing," the man in question informs her tersely. For the first time since her sudden appearance, she turns to look at him. Her eyes are harder than I've ever seen them, especially when directed at him. Once again, I cannot but admire his command of his countenance, as his face betrays nothing of the emotions such treatment must evoke in him.

"Do excuse my rudeness," she replies in a sweet voice that raises suspicion immediately, "I made a reasonable attempt at trying to prevent your being disturbed this evening; I do hope my well-meaning friends didn't interrupt anything…important?"

The unmistakable pause before that last word indicates rather clearly what she is implying and if that isn't enough to clue anyone in, the brief look she gives Gertie before returning her eyes to his is.

"They certainly did," he states coldly. Giving the two young men a contemptuous look, he continues: "Now that they've discovered this lovely little hide-out, I'll have to go elsewhere to enjoy my evenings out undisturbed." Turning towards me he says slowly: "I'll miss the excellent…whiskey."

The young woman snorts contemptuously before I have the chance to reply to that.

"Don't worry; Harry and Ron won't bother you again," she says, turning towards her friends with a warning look, "will they?" Turning her attention back to her former beau, her face once again reveals nothing. "So you are free to come back to enjoy the _whiskey_ as much as you like." Contempt is dripping from her tone at that last statement.

Malfoy just looks at her impassively, looking down at her smaller height. Gertie, however, is less inclined to remain silent.

"Now listen here, missy. Lucius here is an intelligent, handsome bloke and you have no right coming here all high and mighty and insult him. He's right well-mannered, which is more than I can say for your friends, even if one of them is bleedin' Harry Potter! So don't you start with me; you are the one that dumped him after all."

At that, all of them are broken out of the spell that is somehow holding their emotions in check: Potter and Weasley are looking indignant and start sputtering on the ridiculousness of Malfoy and Hermione being an item, while the subjects of their argument wear pained expressions on their faces.

It is the quiet, disconsolate voice of Hermione Granger directed at Gertie that stills all conversation and movement as if she cast a pub-wide petrifying charm.

"Before you come to Malfoy's defence, maybe you should know that _he_ was the one that thought I wasn't worth pursuing a relationship with, not the other way around."

That simple statement manages to complete a feat I have never seen until now: Gertie is speechless. Potter and Weasley seem to be equally stupefied that their friend can sound so sad at the idea of Malfoy not wanting her and I must confess that I myself an very surprised. Having seen his sorrow in being without her, I never would have guessed it was of his own doing.

Long before either of us has even started gathering their wits about them, she has Disapparated with a quiet 'pop'.

It's Weasley that manages to regain his ability to speak first.

"Why isn't she good enough for you?" The question surprises even himself if the widening of his eyes is any indication.

His demanding tone does nothing to compel Lucius to answer; he just stares coolly back at the redhead. I'm not sure if I'm deluding myself, but I think I see a hint of sadness behind it all.

"I bet you couldn't take it, could you Malfoy…" Harry Potter sneers contemptuously, "being with someone so innately _good_,"

The tall blond wizard gives him a contemptuous look, as if such a remark doesn't even deserve a reply; with measured movements he extracts his purse from his robe pocket from which he extracts his usual pile of Galleons and makes for the door.

Potter moves to intercept him as he is about to pass. "We're not done talking yet, Malfoy."

Lucius, who has inevitably slowed his steps, treats the boy – for standing opposite him I can only think of Potter as a boy, despite the grand favour he has done the Wizarding world – to one of those infamous glares of his.

"We were done before you even opened your mouth, Potter."

* * *

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ "Do you think he'll ever come here again?" asks Gertie as she sits somewhat forlornly on one of the stools in front of me. I have no need to ask her whom she's talking about. 

It's been two weeks since the famous Golden Trio was seen in my humble pub and humiliated one of my regular customers...well, two-thirds of it, by any chance. I haven't seen the proud blond wizard whom I now know to be Lucius Malfoy since. The bottle of single malt whiskey I bought especially for him remains untouched, because nobody else even considers spending so much on a drink. Furthermore I must admit that I myself kind of miss his presence as well. He provided a nice change of scenery to the regular folk here, if nothing else.

I shrug my shoulders in response to Gertie's question. How would I know? I'm a bartender not a seer. She sighs deeply.

"It's rather boring here without him, isn't it?"

Old McBurney, who is seated a couple of stools to her left is about to reply as the door swings open rather violently, due to the strong wind outside. As soon as the witch has managed to wrestle the door closed behind her, preventing the wind from blowing her long curly hair every which way, I recognise her as Hermione Granger.

Without ado, she heads straight for me, giving me a hurried greeting.

I nod and look at her expectantly. Inside, I must admit, I am quite curious as to what is to come next.

She doesn't keep me waiting long: "Have you seen Lucius? Do you know where he lives now? Does he still come here?" She fires the questions at me in rapid succession. In my mind's eye I immediately see her as a twelve-year old sitting in a classroom and driving her poor teacher insane with a similar barrage of questions.

Pulling my thoughts away from such idle and most likely false ideas I slowly shake my head.

"I haven't seen him since the evening your friends were here," I say.

Her face crumples just the slightest bit at that. "Do you think he will still come here sometime in the future?" she asks now, her voice small. In her eyes I can see she realises I cannot possibly know the answer to that. Before I even have a chance to answer, Gertie slides one stool closer to where she's standing.

"Why are you looking for him anyway?" she remarks not very tactfully, "You didn't seem too happy to see him last time."

The young woman looks at her sharply the moment Gertie starts speaking, but apparently decides it isn't worth the energy to blow up at her.

Wearily she pulls a worn-looking piece of parchment from her robe. "He wrote me a letter," she sighs and to my surprise hands it over to the other girl.

I must say I am very curious as to what he would write and can't keep myself from casting a longing look from the corner of my eye, in hopes of discerning a word or two. She catches me almost immediately.

"Go right ahead, you can read it."

And so I do.

_My dearest Hermione,_

_Do not fault me for addressing you as such, since, to my heart, dearest you always were and dearest you always will be. I'd be much obliged if you would be so kind as to read this letter and not dismiss it out of hand. I do believe its contents will make things easier for you, even if it's no longer in my power to make you truly happy. You must forgive me for not clearing this up immediately, but as you know I am little inclined to discuss personal matters in public. _

_My unfortunate meeting with your two friends and subsequent meeting with you – if spending a couple of minutes in the same room can be called a meeting – has led me to believe that I have been remiss in properly explaining the reasons for my breaking up with you. It was not, as you seem to have concluded, a lack of feeling on my side. I believe rather the opposite in fact. As far as I can remember this was one of a very limited number of occasions in which I put somebody else's needs before my own. _

_I foresaw what happened between Messrs. Potter and Weasley and myself; knowing who you are, who your friends are and knowing what I myself have been, I realised from the earliest moments of our acquaintance, that any liaison between us would be short-lived. I enjoyed your company however and was selfish enough to claim you in spite of what I knew to be inevitable._

_Your friends will never accept our relationship. Society at large will not accept it. If we were to stay together it would influence your personal life, your career choices and your status in society. That is why I chose to terminate our relationship. I knew someday you would have to choose between me and your other life and I wanted to spare you the agony I am certain it would have caused you. No matter the choice you would have made, it would have made you unhappy, since you are loyal to a fault. It seemed easier at the time to carry that burden for you._

_Yet, when I saw you, saw the hurt in your eyes I knew _you_ never understood it that way. And much as I despise sentimental declarations, I found I couldn't have peace before I explained my actions to you, hoping it would enable you to go on with your life and leave all of this behind you._

_Lucius_

As soon as I am done reading, I raise my eyes to the witch standing before me to find her eyes fixed firmly on mine.

"I have been searching for him everywhere I could think of. Now you understand why I have to find him," she declares.

I nod slowly, contemplatively as I hand her back her letter.

"I'm sorry lass, I haven't seen him," I say with true regret in my voice. There isn't a doubt in my mind that she loves him as much as he appears to love her.

Gertie seems to be of one mind with me, as she wipes a couple of stray tears from her eyes. "Merlin, that's so romantic," she sighes.

Granger's head whips around to face her. "It's bloody nonsense is what it is. If Lucius were here I'd hex him so bad he wouldn't be able to see straight for a week!" she declares shrilly.

All of a sudden I find I'm rather relieved the man isn't here. There's no doubt in my mind she is fully capable of making good on that promise.

* * *

­­­­­­ 

There is a new regular in my pub. As opposed to the previous person who held that position, this one prefers the dark corner at the far end of the pub, where she'll not be spotted until whoever has entered my pub has adjusted their eyes to the dim lighting.

From what I understand she has searched for him everywhere she could think of and come up empty-handed. And so she comes to my pub and waits….

She appears every evening at eight o clock without fail, ordering mineral water and never leaving before midnight. It has been two weeks and so far she has been singularly unsuccessful. I do not worry about her the way I worried about Lucius though. This one has a mission and I think she's too damn stubborn to give it up anytime soon.

"Do you think I'm crazy for doing this?" she asks me conversationally one night.

I give her a crooked smile. "Do you know any sane people that are in love?"

She laughs out loud at that. "Touché."

Its two nights later that her perseverance is rewarded. She has been sitting in her usual corner for not half an hour as the door to the pub swings open to admit a tall, blond, impeccably dressed wizard. I expect him to somehow immediately sense that she is there, but he walks over to his usual spot at the bar without giving the other customers so much as a cursory glance.

I was so intently waiting for some kind of confrontation that he has to look up at me and pull up one brow in a perfect arch before I realise I am slow to serve him his drink today. I throw the dishtowel I was absently rubbing the counter with behind me and walk over to him.

"Didn't expect to see me again?" he asks as I pour him a generous glass of the single malt.

"I try never to assume," I remark noncommittally as I watch him knock back the whiskey in one go.

As I pour him his second glass, his eyes flick to where Gertie is sitting staring at him, although she tries to hide it from him as soon as he looks her way. He picks up his glass and absentmindedly takes a sip, his eyes never leaving her. It seems to take him a while before he realises that she is not going to come over and join him. I think he is unaware of the slight frown that creases his features at that.

With carefully controlled movements he puts the glass down and narrows his eyes at me. "What is going on here?" he asks. I haven't heard that icy tone of voice since the first time I tried to interfere in his business.

Involuntarily my eyes flick toward the corner where I know she is sitting and the blond wizard immediately turns to follow my gaze. All either of us sees is an empty table with a half-full glass of mineral water.

"Hello Lucius."

As soon as I hear the voice that unmistakably belongs to Hermione Granger coming from directly behind Lucius, I set the bottle of whiskey next to his tumbler and retreat to the opposite side of the bar.

Not that I am not trying to listen in on their conversation. I think the whole bloody pub is.

"I've gotten your letter."

"Then what, pray tell, are you doing here? I thought it'd be clear enough."

"It's clear enough it is utter tripe, yes," she remarks calmly, her voice soft and in a tone one would use commenting on the weather.

"I do not wish to discuss it."

"Well that's just too bad, because I do."

"Granger…." he cautions, a warning tone to his voice.

"What, Malfoy?" she mocks him.

"Leave it be."

"Leave it be? Don't I have a say in this matter? It's my bloody life too!" she is getting more agitated now.

"Enough!" he all but bellows as he gets up from the stool. "The situation is not going to change; don't make this any harder than it already is."

With that he grabs his cloak and starts for the door, for the first time ever forgetting to settle the bill.

Before he is halfway over to the door, he is halted in his progress by her voice. Its firm, commanding and yet somehow devoid of feeling and in hearing it I can well imagine that this little slip of a woman was one of the key elements in Voldemort's downfall.

"Hold it right there, Lucius Malfoy, or I swear to God you won't be walking anytime soon."

He turns around slowly, to find her still where he has left her, her wand trained on him with unwavering precision. In spite of what must be a very real threat, even to him, he taunts her.

"You swear to _God_? Merlin, child, you're such a Muggle."

She gives a deep chuckle in response. "I am no child Lucius, as you well know. That must have been the last time when such an obvious attempt to rile me up would have worked."

While speaking, she has slowly rounded the bar and now she is standing in front of Lucius, barely two foot between them, her wand hovering just beneath his chin. I swallow in vicarious anxiety.

"You're afraid, aren't you Lucius?" she all but whispers to him.

He huffs as in derision.

She responds by pressing her wand into his flesh, her eyes strangely intense as she captures his silver gaze in them.

"Aren't you, Lucius?" she repeats, emphasizing his name.

"Anyone who wouldn't be afraid with _your_ wand trained on them is incredibly foolish," he responds quickly, "brightest witch of her age, best friend to Harry _bloody_ Potter…." He trails off as her wand viciously stabs his flesh.

She shakes her head viciously and makes a sound as if in disgust.

"That's not what I meant. I meant that you're afraid to let me make my own choice because you fear that I won't choose you. You fear that when it comes down to it, I don't love you enough and you are absolutely _terrified_ to have that confirmed, aren't you, Lucius?"

Her voice is viciously passionate and as her wand moves slightly when he swallows convulsively, I get the impression that she finally made a chink in that armour of his.

He remains silent though and looks down his nose at her challengingly.

"Such a pity…" she murmurs as she lets her wand slide down his throat in an approximation of a caress. "Because you know, Lucius, " again the strange emphasis on his name as she pushes the tip of her wand inside the hollow at the base of his throat "I would have chosen you."

He looks down at her dispassionately, at least outwardly and still keeps his silence.

"I would have chosen you, if you'd only given me the chance…" she whispers, the fight suddenly leaving her. Her wand drops back to her side and she turns her back to him.

He stands immobile as she takes her cloak and makes for the door.

As the door shuts behind her with a civilized 'click' every patron in the pub seems to be released from a petrifying charm. Everybody but the blond wizard still standing exactly where she has left him.

Just as I am beginning to wonder whether she _has_ made good on her threat and cast some sort of silent incantation on him, he turns towards me, his eyes pleading for I don't know what. So I just say what's foremost in my own mind.

"Well? Shouldn't you go after her, lad?"

As if that little sentence somehow answers any question he ever had, he rushes to the door and pulls it open, only to be halted in his progress by someone entering the pub at the exact same time.

"Hermione, I…" he starts softly, his voice strangely hoarse.

"You idiot!" she interrupts him, tears brimming in her eyes, "I love you!" She launches herself at him and, having already anticipated her move, he catches her and wraps her in his arms tightly.

"I am so sorry," he murmurs into her abundant hair, his hands rubbing over her back soothingly, "you're right, I am an idiot. I should have known you're too damn stubborn to let anybody decide over your life like that."

He pulls back a little to be able to look her in the eyes. He gives her a little smile. "And right you are," he declares, just before he pulls her towards him and presses his lips soundly against hers.

To my shame I must admit that my customers completely ruin the moment by breaking out in loud cheers right at this moment, except for Gertie, who is crying and keeps repeating that it is all 'so terribly romantic'. The couple at the door fortunately doesn't seem to notice, seeing they are completely lost in each other.

I haven't seen them here since, but I heard that they are married now. Even saw a picture of them in the paper once, commenting on how Lucius Malfoy now wore Muggle jewellery. As I understand it, the matching rings the both of them wear signify that they belong together.

So everything turns out as it should be, like I have seen it happen dozens of times before. But I must admit, I never tire of it. If only if it gives me an excuse to buy expensive whiskey; my wife would otherwise never let me get away with it.

_Finite incantatem_

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AN: please leave me a review and let me know what you think! 


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